“Waal,” said a slow, measured voice, with that unnatural tone one has in speaking to one’s self, “Tad hev got no call ter kem back.”
“Who air ye a-talkin’ ter?” cried Bylor, starting up, his nerves quivering at the slightest provocation.
“Somebody told me just then ’twar Tad’s harnt,” said Price, rousing himself with an effort.
“They never!” cried Bylor. “Old man Beames hain’t got done moanin’ ’bout his cattle, like they war the ornymints o’ the nation. Nobody never opened thar mouths ter ye. Ye jes’ answered ter nuthin’.”
“Harshaw never b’lieved Lethe Sayles seen no harnt,” declared one.
“He hed ter say that,” observed the foreman, evidently of spectral tendencies, “no matter what he believed. The ’torney-gin’al war powerful sure she seen a harnt.”
“He ’lowed it war a hellucination,” protested Bylor, being extremely averse to any theory involving supernatural presence.
“Waal,” argued the logical Price, “he ’lowed ez a hellucination war suthin’ ez looks like a person, but ’tain’t him. Now ain’t that a harnt? Ain’t Tad’s harnt suthin’ that looks like Tad, an’ ain’t Tad?”
“Oh,” cried Bylor, springing from the bench, “I feel obligated ter git away from sech talk! I jes’ look ter see Peter Rood a-stalkin’ round hyar direc’ly, with that awful stare he hed in his eyes when he war stone dead fur ever so long, with his face so close ter mine. I can’t abide it no longer! Let’s toss up. Heads, acquit! Tails, convict!” He produced a coin from his pocket.
“Naw, ye won’t,” said the foreman quickly. “Naw! We’ll delib’rate on this hyar question, an’ decide it like a jury oughter.”